A Game of Bones
by melissakay
Summary: King Joffrey is throwing an archery tournament for his 18th Name Day and everybody who's anybody with a bow and arrow has been invited, including Hawkeye, Daryl Dixon and Katniss Everdean. But when the competitors learn the truth about the tournament, will it be Joffrey's head on a stick? Slash fic with plenty of naughty bits, so be warned!


**A Game of Bones**

_Disclaimer: I don't own 'em, and I'm not pretending to, so don't sue me! This little mini-epic saga or what-have-you includes the likes of every bow-wielding assassin known to man and popular culture including Cupid, Hawkeye, Katniss Everdean, Link from Zelda, Meredith from Brave, Daryl Dixon and Legolas, among others. _

_Rating: Not for kiddies. Lots of boobs, bums, and bones… and bumping uglies._

**Chapter One**

Once upon a time, in a land far, far, far, _far _away, called La-La Land, there existed a gigantic kingdom. This kingdom was broken up into five boroughs and in each borough, a different king ruled. Or at least, he thought he was a king, when really, he was just a pretender to the throne. The real king was Walt Disney. But that's another story.

Anyway, one day King Joffrey, the blonde little megalomaniac in charge of Hitler's Germany - sorry, King's Landing - decided that since it was almost his eighteenth Name Day, he would like to hold a tournament in his own honour. He did that occasionally, because that was how he rolled. Never mind the fact that the tournament was going to cost the realm a pretty penny, and that none of Joffrey's actual friends RSVP'd (he didn't have any, because as Bron the sell-sword so eloquently put it, he was a little c**t).

Everyone was invited, from politicians to pimps to porn-stars. Instead of holding a boring old jousting tourney, because those were just _so_ 1687, Joffrey decided that the weapon of choice in this particular bout of Hunger Games was going to be the humble old bow and arrow. After all, it was used for hunting way back when and these days it was the must-have item, the in-thing. Everybody who was anybody had himself (or herself) a wicked looking crossbow. Hell, even the elves were getting with the program, ditching their long slender bows for bulky iron chick-magnets. Sorry, weapons of mass seduction. Anyhoo, jousting sticks and swords were out, and bows and quivers were in. Joffrey liked the sound of that. The word quiver reminded him of sex. Hell, he was a teenager. The word linoleum reminded him of sex.

Archers from all five boroughs were invited to participate. Only the best of the best need reply. The rules of the game were, 1) Don't talk about Fight Club. 2) Refer to rule number one. 3) Anything goes; and 4) Fooled you; there _are_ no rules! It was literally kill or be killed.

The first to accept the challenge was Katniss Everdean, the darling of District 12, Panam. Joffrey threw a hissy fit when he found out that his mother, the Queen Regent, had invited a _girl _to play in his games. But she insisted that all must be fair in love and war, and after all, who the hell were all the blokes supposed to want to root? Sorry, root _for_? His reply was icy. 'Mother, only _Australians _will get _that _joke. And possibly Americans.'

But Joffrey had to admit, Katniss was a fair maiden indeed. He'd seen her poster after she and her boyfriend Peeta won Panam's own, far inferior brand of Hunger Games last year. He rather liked brunettes with a big pair of stones. They were the only ones who'd stand up to him. And she was handy with a bow and arrow, of course. He liked that too. As soon as he received her raven, carrying her formal acceptance card, he picked up the poster from Who Weekly and licked Katniss's image. 'I'd like to stick my arrow in _your _quiver,' he intimated.

The RSVP's flowed in. The tournament soon had a respectable nine competitors.

There was Daryl Dixon, a scruffy redneck from out of the Midwest, or what Joffrey's uncle Tyrion liked to call Deliverance country;

Link, who dressed like a leprechaun and was forever looking for someone named Zelda;

Jaqen H'ghar, the face-changing assassin from Bravos (who had mad skills with many weapons but tended to favour the gun dart for its fatal efficiency);

Clint Barton, a SHIELD agent whose prowess with a crossbow, not to mention fabulous guns got the ladies all lubed up, and was otherwise known as Hawkeye;

A short, flame-haired lass called Meredith who was fairly good at hunting and putting spells on people she didn't like, to turn them into bears;

A dwarf named Kili and an elf who rather fancied himself called Legolas, from the Land of the Long White Cloud;

The master archer and matchmaker Cupid himself;

And last but not least, a bloke going by the name of William Tell. God only knew where _he_ sailed in from. But then, every party has to have at least _one_ gate-crasher, right? Right?! Besides, his reputation preceded him. Apparently, he could shoot an apple off the head of a person standing over fifty metres away. Well _that'll_ come in handy, thought Joffrey, sarcastically, if we were making them hunt apples!

The name of the game was for them to hunt each other. Oh there was an ultimate prize, of course. There _had_ to be. Got to give the competitors something to fight to the death _for_! There had been a fair amount of argument at the weekly council meeting, about what that should be, until his mother slapped the table and announced that since nobody really wanted Sansa Stark anyway, they should offer _her _as the main prize. 'But there are girls in the tourney as well,' Margery, Joffrey's betrothed, pointed out. 'What about something for them? They won't want Sansa, either, unless they prefer taco to sausage.'

'Good point,' said Cersei. 'What about Sir Dontas? He's old, but he's a knight. Or he was, before Sansa turned him into a fool.'

'Ew,' said Margery, making a face. 'Who wants a hoary old knight? What about that bastard we picked up cheap after that limited skirmish in the North? What was his name… Sleet? Hale?'

'Snow,' barked Joffrey, impatiently. 'His name is Snow. Jon Snow. Ned Stark's bastard, actually.' He smiled, wicked thoughts running through his mind. 'Yes… That will do nicely.' He called out to his chief dogsbody, the Hound. 'Dog! Bring Snow up from the dungeons! And make it snappy. His beard's growing by the hour. He needs a shit, shower and shave. He's to be the alternate prize in my tourney, should a girl actually _win_.'

'Katniss, I _really_ wish you wouldn't,' whined Peeta, who'd come to La-La Land, not to cheer his girlfriend on, but to try to convince her to back out of the tournament. He'd heard things about King's Landing's ugly little pouting prince. Things he daren't speak about, because every time he thought about them, they gave him wood, and if he got wood while describing sodomy with a stale breadstick, Katniss might think him odd.

'Oh, come on Peeta,' said Katniss, impatiently, as she sat stringing her latest bow. 'You _know_ I can't turn down a good fight! This is my chance to prove myself as an expert marksman! Marks-woman, even! The best of the _best_ are here! I'll be up against legends like William Tell, and Cupid, and Legolas of Mirkwood! Don't you see? It's going to be like the Comic Con of Archery up in that place! I cannot miss it, even for you. Do you understand?'

'I suppose so,' said Peeta, glumly. 'I guess if there was a tournament for strong people who like to throw random shit, I'd be there, like, _yesterday_.'

'There is,' said Katniss. 'It's called the Kaiber Toss. They throw logs. Or you could throw a dwarf for me. Really. There's one named Kili in the tourney.' She frowned. 'Except by the looks of him, he's not as short as I expected.'

'There're a _lot_ of guys in this thing,' said Peeta, reading the tournament programme. 'I don't know about this.'

Katniss sighed. She was getting rather tired of Peeta's incessant jealousy. He even accused her of flirting with Hamitch after their win in the Hunger Games, for Christ's sake. 'I'm not here to check out the competition,' she said. 'At least, not the way you're thinking.'

'What about this guy here?' said Peeta, holding up the programme to show his girlfriend a photo of Hawkeye, the Avenger's famed archer and enigmatic loner. 'Don't tell me you wouldn't go for some of _that_.'

'Peeta', said Katniss, exasperated. 'Are you _trying_ to hook me up with other guys? Because that's what it sounds like. I'm here to win… _and _to get my boob autographed by Legolas. But I'm mainly here to win.' She took the programme away from her boyfriend, made as if to tear it up, then noticed Clint Barton's fabulous, famous arms; tanned, buff and veined to perfection.

'Jesus Christ; is he for real?' she breathed. When Peeta looked up, she laughed. 'Just kidding! You _know _I only have eyes for you.'

Peeta pouted. 'Prove it.'

Katniss leaned over the bed, and pushed Peeta backward onto the mattress. Straddling him, she held his wrist and kissed her way down the inside of his arm. 'Mm' she murmured. 'Clint Barton, who?!'

While Katniss was making sweet make-up love with her jealous man, Link was on the floor of his suite doing his daily push-ups, sit-ups and lunges before he got stuck into archery practice. He was primed; focused. Nothing was going to distract him from his ultimate goal. He'd heard that Zelda might be in the audience. The thought of breathing the same air as that lovely creature…

There was a knock on his door. 'Room Service,' said a voice that sounded scorched by too many cigarettes and bottles of Black Douglas.

'I didn't order any room service. Go away,' said Link, into his 400th sit-up.

'Oh, but who's going to pay me my tip?'

'I don't give a flying fuck' Link said, halfway between 400 and 401. 'I'm busy.'

'That's not very sportsmanlike of you,' said the voice. 'Aren't you curious? You obviously have a secret admirer. What if she's hot? I can tell you now; she had a sexy voice when she called to place her order.'

Zelda! Thought Link. Nah. Couldn't be. Could it?

He sprung up from the floor and opened the door to his room. On the other side of the threshold was one butt-ugly maid. She had curly, platinum blonde hair and a cleft chin. But there was something familiar about her…

'Surprise, Link honey,' said the maid, ripping off the wig to reveal… curly _dark_ blonde hair. Next went the dress. Underneath were a pair of natty looking breeches and not much else.

'It's me, Loras Tyrell! Don't you remember, from Spring Break? That night when we both got drunk on Peppermint Schnapps and fooled around? Renly's dead, and I'm so, _so_ lonely…'

'You're supposed to be one of the King's guards,' Link reminded him, trying to fend off the Knight of Flowers. 'You're not supposed to take a woman to your bed… or a man, for that matter! I'm happy with my one true love… well, I'm happy stalking her. But when she realises she loves me, we'll be happy _together_! You'll see! GET OFF ME!'

'That's not what you said on the couch that night,' said Loras, kissing Link's animated little face. 'You've got two of those words around the wrong way! I swear, Link, just for one night, I can make you forget all about that vapid little whore who keeps leading you on and laughing in your face! Your sweet, uncomplicated face…'

By this time, Link was starting to enjoy himself, but wouldn't admit it. He kept pushing at Loras, but the attempts grew more and more feeble. 'Oh, who am I kidding?' he muttered, as Loras kissed a path down his body, unfastening his little green tunic and pants, and taking Link's member in his hot, wet mouth. Link arched his back and surrendered to Loras completely. When it was over, Loras wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and grinned. 'Just as good as I remembered.'

'So… when did Renly go and cark it?' Link asked. 'I thought he was your penguin.'

'He was,' said Loras, sadly. 'Stannis killed him. He wanted the throne all to himself. Christ knows why _anyone_ would want to sit in that thing; it looks more painful than the Anal Invader 2000, with all those pointy bits sticking up…'

'Loras,' said Link, 'You have to get out of here, while it's still night and no one's lurking about. If anyone sees you leave, I can't imagine what the tabloids are going to say.'

'Oh you're so uptight, you know that?' said Loras. 'Forget it. Everyone's safely in their rooms, tucked in for the night. I made sure of that. I was the maid, remember?'

Link sighed. It didn't look like he was getting rid of Loras anytime soon. Still, the man did have his talents. Swordplay definitely being one of them! 'I've got a really big day tomorrow,' he told Loras. 'Why don't you do whatever you're going to do and get it over with, so I can sleep?'

'Oh you,' said Loras, playfully. 'As romantic as ever! Roll over, baby, and you won't have to move a muscle. Let me do all the work.'

Sounds like a plan, thought Link, rolling onto his stomach.

Jon Snow blinked away tears of pain and gratitude. He hadn't been out of his basement cell in weeks, and he was getting a tad whiffy. The light from yonder windows was giving him a terrible headache, though, his eyes not used to being in the light for so long. Joffrey's servant girls converged on him at once, undressing him and pulling him over to a steaming hot bath. Jon had to admit, they were very good at their job! They scrubbed him clean, dried him with towels made of what felt like cotton wool and clothed him in the finest black threads the kingdom had to offer.

Not because he was a Crow anymore, but because he simply looked good in black. Then one of them, a big-breasted beauty with long flowing red hair, cut his locks for him, while yet another shaved his beard with a straight razor. When he was all done, they dragged him over to a full-length mirror. Jon stared at himself, lost for words. Back at the Wall, they'd only had dinky little slivers of mirror around, mainly to keep their beards from getting in the way of guarding the realm from The Others and the wildlings and women and all the other dangerous shit that can undo an entire kingdom. He'd forgotten that in all the time that had passed, he'd grown from a fifteen year old boy into a man capable of leading other men into battle. And, apparently, well capable of getting his end away! He was a good-looking bloke under all that hair!

'Wow,' said the red-haired one. 'Corr, you're a bit of all right, ain't ya? I could go me some o' that.'

'So could I,' said the one that had shaved off his beard. She had dark hair and reminded him a little bit too much of his long lost half sister, Arya, with those big grey eyes of hers! In fact…

Jon blinked and took a closer look. 'Arya?'

'No,' said the girl, hurriedly. 'My name is… um… Danaerys. I was named for the mother of dragons. I don't know who this Arya character is…'

'Don't bullshit me,' said Jon, suddenly, reaching out and ruffling her hair, like he used to do to his little sis. 'I know my sister when I see her.'

'I'm _not_ your sister!' denied the girl, hotly. 'I'm a servant girl, indentured to the Queen! I serve Joffrey and Cersei and… and one day when they're asleep in their beds I'm going to sneak in and cut their no-good traitorous throats with my trusty straight razor – or Needle, whichever I can get to first!' She slapped her hand over her mouth, before she could betray herself further.

'Haha,' said Jon, 'I _knew_ it! Arya, come here, you little bugger.'

'What's this?' said the red-haired one. ''oo's Arya when she's at home?'

The dark-haired girl calling herself Danaerys dropped the act, throwing her arms around her big brother and giving him an oxygen-depriving bear hug.

'I'm Arya,' she said, turning toward the other girl, her arm still around Jon. 'And this is my brother, Jon Snow. And Sansa, the other prisoner here, is my sister. Your boss – King Joffrey – had my father's head cut off for the fun of it! Now I'm going to take my vengeance on him and the Lannisters and everyone here who has made my family's life a living hell for the past two seasons.'

'Oh,' said the red-haired girl. 'Fair enough, I 'spose. Joffrey _is_ a sick, twisted little fuck, after all. Shan't be sad to see him choking on his own blood.'

'And your name is?' asked Jon, astounded by the Cockney girl's language, but oddly attracted to her at the same time.

'Ros,' she said. 'I work for LIttlefinger. Lord Baelish.'

'Oh, so you're a…'

'A whore, yes,' said Ros, sounding tired. 'You want to take it out in trade?'

'Take what out in trade?' asked Jon.

'Well, I dunno. Whatever. I'm easy. I'm a whore, after all,' said Ros, dropping trou in front of both Jon and Arya, who made a face and turned away. Jon however, was spellbound.

'She's always doing that,' said Arya. 'It's a tad disturbing. I'm gonna go and see if I can catch a cat. I haven't kept up with my lessons lately. Serio would be very disappointed.'

But Jon and Ros didn't hear a word she said.

'What? No. Look… Why am I here? Why do you _think_ I'm here? Actually… to tell you the truth, _I'm_ not entirely sure why I'm here.'

Clint Barton scratched his head and sat on the edge of the ornate four poster bed in his suite. He could hear Natasha Romanoff – his best friend and The Black Widow – reminding him of his commitment to SHIELD and The Avengers. The mayor of New York wanted to give them the key to the city, for saving it against Loki and his alien army that time. There was supposed to be a great big party, followed by an after-party, followed by an after-after party. All the parties were tiring Barton out. He could just envisage all the autographs he'd have to sign. Okay, some of that was fun – especially the buxom women who wanted Hawkeye to sign their ample body parts. But the endless photo parades and the media and the constant rumour mill about the status of his relationship with Natasha was so over the top and done to death. Barton just wanted to get away and do something for himself for a while. And this archery tournament sounded like just the thing to recharge his batteries. That was why he was here. But he wasn't about to admit that to Nat. She would think he was being selfish.

Then she tossed him a bombshell, and his jaw dropped.

'You did _what_? You're kidding me. Steve Rogers is so _boring_! Really, Nat, you can do better than _that _old Popsicle.'

'Well, I would, if you'd get that hot little ass of yours back here,' she said, playfully.

'Nat, we're just friends,' he reminded her. 'Okay, friends with benefits, but I'm not really looking for that right now. No offence, I mean, you're gorgeous, but… I've got a tournament to win and a princess to save…'

'What princess?' said Nat, pouncing on the word like it was Catnip. Could that be jealousy? Clint wondered. 'What the hell is going on, Barton?'

'Well, see it's this conceited little prick Joffrey Baratheon. He's having an eighteenth Name Day, and the person who wins this archery tournament gets to take home the girl he and his mother were going to execute. So, in effect, if I win, I'm saving her. And…'

'And she's a princess? Is she pretty?'

'She's got red hair,' Clint said, helplessly. 'Her brother's the King in the North, so I guess that sort of makes her a princess.'

'Is she pretty?!'

'Jesus, Nat! I don't know! I suppose so!'

Clint stared down at his cell phone in disbelief. She hung up on him?! Over _that_?

Dwarves and elves had a history of not getting along. At least that was what Tyrion had always known to be true. So why was this Kili dancing a jig on the bar, arm in arm with none other than Legolas of Mirkwood? Tyrion could give them one thing. They had stamina, the both of them. One minute they're dancing, the next they're trying to drink each other under the table. It'd be amusing if they didn't have a tournament to survive through the next day. And Joffrey wasn't likely to make things easy on them. He hated dwarves. Especially dwarves that happened to be related to him. Tyrion was glad he wasn't a competitor in his nephew's odd choice of entertainment. He could just imagine the tortures Joffrey would devise to try to end him. Actually no, come to think of it, he really couldn't. His mind didn't work on the same basement level as Joffrey's.

'Come here, come here,' sang Kili, beckoning to Tyrion. 'We little men have to prove that we can swim with the big boys.'

'I don't have to prove anything, but whatever,' said Tyrion, accepting a sizeable pot of ale from the bar wench. 'I'm a Lannister. Our name precedes itself.'

'I've heard that,' said Legolas. 'Your brother, Jamie, is a great swordsman. Your father is a master battle tactician. Your sister… such beauty is renowned through all the lands. And you… Hang on… Exactly what _do _you bring to the table?'

'My whoring, apparently,' said Tyrion. 'According to my father, I excel at that.'

Kili let out a great gust of laughter. 'Good things come in small packages, eh, friend?'

'Too true, my very drunk friend. Too true,' said Tyrion. 'Whoa, don't go near anyone with a match. You smell like a distillery.'

Tyrion's bodyguard and bestie, Bron, laughed as he groped at the topless waitress serving his jug of beer. 'Those dwarves can put it away, that's for sure! He holds his liquor better than you do, Lannister.'

'Don't remind me,' said Tyrion. 'Oh look, here comes trouble!'

Bron, Kili and Legolas all stopped what they were doing to see what Tyrion was talking about. Through the wooden saloon doors walked the fattest man any of them had ever seen. And he was wearing a _nappy_. And he was _smiling_. Clearly, he's completely insane, thought Legolas.

'Cupid, you son of a gun,' said Tyrion. 'Who the fuck invited _you_ to this shindig?'

'Your evil little slime of a nephew, that's who,' said Cupid, smiling away, not the least bit perturbed by Tyrion's greeting. 'I assume I'm here to shake things up a bit. If they get too boring that is.'

'Boring? An archery tournament?' Legolas slammed his pint down on the table. 'I resent that comment.'

'It isn't so much an archery tournament as a celebrity death match,' Cupid pointed out. 'I've already placed my bet. They say Katniss and Barton are at even odds. Five to one.'

'They're betting on this now?' Tyrion shook his head, bewildered. 'Who's your bookie?'

'Sly guy; goes by the name of Crowley,' said Cupid. 'If you're wanting an inside tip…'

'Save your money,' growled a voice at the bar. Everyone turned toward the man wearing the black leather hoodie. His face was masked by the overhang of the hood, but Tyrion and Kili were short enough to at least see his stubbled chin and dark pools for eyes. 'Baratheon is planning on killing every last one of you.'

'How do you know that?' asked Tyrion. 'Who are you?'

'I'm a friend,' said the man, 'Of the King.'

'Which king?' asked Bron. 'In case you haven't noticed, we have a few spare rattling around the place. If you're a friend to Joff, why would you betray him by telling us his plans?'

'I didn't say I was _Joffrey's_ friend,' the man replied. 'I said I was friend to the King.'

'The King in the North?' Legolas asked.

'Stannis Baratheon?' Kili wanted to know.

'Balon Greyjoy?'

'Aragorn son of Arathorn?'

'Elvis?!'

The man held his hand up. 'The true king,' he said. 'I'll leave you lot to mull that over.' He stood up and tossed a fiver to the bar wench, who winked at him and blew him a kiss. Then he headed for the door without another word.

'Well that's no fair,' said Bron. 'Who the fuck is he, and what fucking King is he on about?'

'Beats me,' said Tyrion, his mind working overtime. 'I'll see you guys later.'

'Oh, now _he's_ being bloody mysterious,' said Bron, to no one in particular.

Tyrion managed to follow the mysterious man for three blocks before the man crossed the road in front of a bus, narrowly avoiding a messy end. His curiosity was piqued, though. Who the hell was the mystery man, and just what did he know about the tournament that they didn't?

_Next time on Game of Bones_…

Cersei throws the competitors a banquet, and Joffrey throws a tantrum.

Oh, yeah and in other news, the tournament gets underway…


End file.
